In the Beginning
by sockie1000
Summary: Numbers had brought them together.  Otherwise, Harold and Nathan probably never would have become friends.  ** Pre-series. Harold, Nathan, & the machine. My take on what happened to Nathan- yes, character death. Friendship, not slash. **
1. Chapter 1

Title: In the Beginning…

Author: sockie1000

Summary: Numbers had brought them together. Otherwise, Harold and Nathan probably never would have become friends. ** Pre-series Harold and Nathan. Friendship, not slash. **

Warning: Character death. You should already know who.

Author's notes: Thanks, as always, to my two wonderful betas: Rogue Tomato, who loves both the show and trying to figure out what happened as much as I do; and Cokie316, who had seen the show once or twice but was sweet enough to beta anyway. (but she's watching it now… :evilgrin: )

This story is short- 10k words and six chapters. I'll post every other day (roughly) so we will be finished before the end of the month. I hope that works for everyone. :D

And for those of you on alert who kept getting emails with broken links to this story… sorry about that. Apparently, it is a well-known glitch on this site that sometimes stories just don't show up. So, you just have to wait days or weeks to see if they return from the abyss or repost and try again. I'm not very patient, so you know which one I did. So, I apologize for junking up your emails. Believe me, I was just as frustrated about it as you.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Numbers had brought them together.

Otherwise, Harold and Nathan probably never would have become friends.

It was fortuitous that MIT used a random number generator to match up roommates, placing both of them in room 316 of Bexley Hall. Harold still remembered the first time they met, when Nathan burst into the room, dropped his red duffle bag on the floor, and stuck out his hand. "Nathan Ingram," he said, with an easy manner and a wide grin to match.

Harold had never met anyone quite like Nathan. Harold had grown up quietly in New England, the last son of Frances and Stanley Finch, two professors at a prominent liberal arts university. Harold never bonded with his older brothers, who liked to hide his glasses, push him in the pool, and call him a baby, among other things. He was different from the other kids his age as well, even the ones in his prestigious private school. While they liked to play sports, Harold preferred to remain indoors, lost in a book. When he became a teenager, the other guys liked to talk about girls and their Saturday night conquests. Harold was somewhat terrified of speaking to the opposite sex and most of his Saturday nights consisted of attending his parents' dinner parties, where the fellow professors and guests would pass the evening discussing classic literature, often speaking in the author's native language. They hardly said a word to the shy boy sitting at the end of the dining room table.

So when Nathan extended his hand in friendship that August day, Harold couldn't help but be drawn to the gregarious Texan.

Despite their "odd couple" appearance, the two quickly became close friends. Nathan encouraged Harold to get his nose out of books and experience life while Harold provided a calm, steady sounding board for Nathan to share his thoughts and dreams.

And Nathan had big dreams. To start a company. To get rich. And maybe, one day, to save the world.

Every hero needs a faithful sidekick and Harold was up for the task. One week after graduating in 1980, they founded IFT, Inc. in a small apartment in Queens. They worked out an easy arrangement that suited them both; Nathan would be the face of the company, providing the voice and the charm, and Harold would be the brains, providing the intelligence and skill.

The first few months were lean, but they made it, courtesy of Harold's modest trust fund and countless dinners of ramen noodles. But then their fortunes began to improve. Nathan was able to take Harold's schematics and initial designs and parlay them into an impressive amount of investment funding from venture capitalists. Once they sold their first product nine months later, a sophisticated software program, IFT was on the map as a major up-and-coming player in the quickly evolving computer world.

They celebrated the sale with a fly-fishing trip to Wyoming. Naturally, Finch didn't want to go, preferring to stay home in New York and work instead.

"You're going to go blind, you know, staring at that computer all day," Nathan told him.

"That's why I have glasses," Harold replied, still clicking away on his computer at a dizzying pace. "It helps with the eye strain."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "We can talk strategy while we're standing in the river, if that makes you feel better."

Two days later, they left for Casper. And much to Harold's surprise, he enjoyed himself. So much, in fact, that when Nathan handed his camera to one of the other fishermen on the third day, asking him to take their picture, Harold genuinely smiled.

"So, we finally found a sport you enjoy," Nathan commented, smiling as he drew back his line and cast into the North Platte River.

"Actually, this is the second sport I enjoy," Harold countered as he patiently drew his line in. "I already liked chess."

Nathan snorted. "Chess is not a sport. It's a darn fine way to fall asleep."

It wasn't until after they returned to New York that Harold realized they had never once discussed strategy.

When the pictures were developed, Nathan framed the photo of the two of them taken by the fisherman and presented it to Harold. "To remind you what life's really about," Nathan said. Harold accepted the gift with a smile and placed it on his desk, next to his computer monitor. It remained there for years.

Time passed and they continued to work hard, building IFT into a technological powerhouse. But Nathan continued to insist they also take some time off to play. For Nathan, that included falling in love and getting married. For Harold, that included season tickets to the New York Philharmonic.

Through highs and lows- the birth of Nathan's son, the death of Harold's parents, Nathan's divorce- they remained best friends.

And Harold considered himself very lucky that numbers brought them together.

He never dreamed that one day numbers would also tear them apart.

*POI*

_2005_

"You're sure it was Weeks?" Nathan asked as he rose from his chair, referring to the Deputy Director of the CIA and supervisor for the machine project. The director had apparently been trying to tunnel into the machine for weeks, using the NSA data feed.

Harold shut the lid of the laptop computer. "The machine told me," he replied simply, confident in both the machine and his programming skills which created it. He stood and walked towards the elevator. "It has an instinct for self-preservation."

"You talk about that thing like it's alive," Nathan pointed out, gesturing towards the laptop as he walked behind Finch.

"Shhhh, it can hear you." Finch joked.

Harold thought it was less of a joke when he sat down at his computer the next morning, hot tea in hand, ready to start another day. After logging in, using a random alphanumeric password, complete with upper and lowercase letters, numbers, and even an ampersand and asterisk thrown in for good measure, he was greeted with the following message:

possible threat detected. Nathan C. Ingram

Finch sat at his desk, staring at the screen in shock for a few minutes. Then a slow smile crept across his face.

He couldn't believe it actually worked. He knew the machine could find potential threats by combing through hard data, such as receipts, cell phone calls, and text messages. And the apprehension of Kurtzweil just that week proved the machine was able to find the thinnest threads linking people to potential terrorism.

But what the machine had accomplished now, by alerting him to Nathan being a potential threat… well, that was something different entirely.

Because Nathan hadn't said anything "wrong". He hadn't threatened anyone, hadn't purchased a gun, and hadn't even been talking about a person.

But he had been talking about the machine. And while Harold was kidding when he told Nathan the machine could hear him, he wasn't joking about its instinct for self-preservation… an instinct he had programmed in. And until that moment, Finch wasn't sure it would work.

But the proof was sitting right in front of his face, courtesy of a computer screen.

The machine was cognizant. Aware. And able to make inferences.

Finch had created artificial intelligence, the likes of which the world had never seen.

And if he had his way, it never would.

Harold looked at the screen for a little longer, savoring the victory.

Then he deleted the message and began to vigorously reinforce the firewall.

*POI*

_2010_

"What did he say?"

Nathan sighed and set his briefcase down on a leather chair in his office at the deserted IFT Headquarters in Manhattan. "Can I at least take my coat off before you bombard me with questions, Harold?"

"Of course," Finch nodded, with a bob of his head. He pressed his lips together tightly to avoid saying anything more while Nathan shrugged out of his overcoat.

"I think your lips are turning blue," Nathan said with another sigh. He walked around to his desk, stopping by a credenza on the way. He opened up the bottom right door and removed a bottle of scotch, along with a crystal tumbler, which he held up. "Care for one?" he asked.

Harold shook his head, disappointment evident on his face. "That bad?"

Ingram nodded as he poured himself a drink, not even bothering to recap the bottle. He took a sip, savoring the burn on the way down. "That bad," he confirmed.

Harold stood completely still for a moment, his brows knitted together in concern. "He just… didn't care?"

Nathan took another sip before looking at Harold. "I believe his exact words were, 'Mr. Ingram, these numbers are insignificant'."

Harold just stood there, shocked. It took him a minute to find his voice. "But they're not just numbers. They're people, U. S. citizens. Isn't he supposed to be protecting them?"

"Apparently, he's only interested in protecting them against terrorists," Nathan said, bitterly. "What we do amongst ourselves isn't important to him."

It was Harold's turn to sigh. He really shouldn't be surprised- it had been a long shot to begin with. But since Weeks was the only person who knew about the machine, other than the NSA liaison, Alicia Corwin, their options were limited.

Ingram had already tried to reason with Alicia to no avail. "I can't," she said, shaking her head, looking genuinely sorry. "Weeks is very territorial. He wouldn't want this information shared with other agencies, even if it would save lives. If I passed this info along to the FBI or police and Weeks found out…" She sighed. "At best I'd be out of a job. And at worst, I'd be dead. I'm sorry, but my hands are tied. As regrettable as it is, I suggest you just forget about it."

But they couldn't.

At first, there were just a few numbers, ones belonging to random citizens who were not considered a threat to national security. Instead of their numbers being sent to the CIA, they were dumped onto a computer file on Harold's hard drive. Ingram thought they might actually be anomalies, created by some random glitch in the system, but Finch was adamant the numbers were meaningful.

He began to meticulously research the numbers, trying to find out why the machine had flagged them. It took a few weeks, but then a pattern began to emerge. One number belonged to a man who killed his wife's lover four days after his number appeared; another to a woman who was mysteriously poisoned less than 12 hours after her number came up. And the pattern continued- future felons and victims predicted with alarming accuracy.

Harold shared his findings with Nathan in his office one afternoon, eleven weeks after the machine spit out the first number. By that time, the list of numbers had grown to 27, representing 25 crimes and 18 deaths. Only two people had either changed their minds or not yet carried through with their intentions.

And the creators of the machine were faced with a choice- act on the information or do nothing.

It wasn't a hard decision, especially for Nathan. He still wanted to save the world and those opportunities did not come around often for tech company executives, even for those who freelanced for the DOD.

"I guess it's for the best," Nathan said, interrupting Finch's musing. "After all," he added with a wan smile, "if Weeks had an excuse to snoop around in the private lives of civilians, the only safe places to have a conversation would be in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa or an outhouse in the backwoods of Montana."

"I wouldn't put him past having ears in the outhouse," Harold replied dryly, before returning Nathan's thin smile.

Nathan chuckled grimly then looked down, studying the little whiskey that remained in his tumbler, noticing how smoothly it swirled and how the light glinted off the crystal facets as he rotated the glass in his hand. "I guess that's it then," he said slowly. "We don't have any other choice." He brought the tumbler up to his lips and paused, before quickly knocking back the rest of his drink. He set the glass down and looked straight at Harold.

"We're going to have to do this ourselves."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Harold stood there, surprised. After a minute, he found his voice. "What?"

"You heard me. If nobody will help us, we'll just have to do it ourselves," Nathan replied, gesturing between Finch and himself.

Harold continued to stand completely still, but scrunched his face up, perplexed. "Are you crazy?"

"Not according to my last Board of Directors physical." Nathan grinned and dug his hands into his suit pants pockets. "That is, unless the Mayo clinic doesn't know what they're talking about."

"Be serious, Nathan." Finch implored.

"I am serious," Ingram replied. He looked away and blew out a long breath, before returning his gaze to Harold. "Look, I just can't sit by while innocent people die. Not if there's something we can do about it."

"And what exactly are we going to do?" Finch asked, his voice rising in pitch. "Ring someone's doorbell and tell them the Boogie Man is after them? And that's assuming it's not the Boogie Man who answers the door in the first place!"

"We won't be ringing any doorbells," Nathan said, trying to calm Harold down. "At least not until we know for sure who is at risk."

"And how will we find that out?" Harold asked. He stepped closer to his friend, pleading. "We only get a number, Nathan. The computer can't tell us everything- we'll have to do some legwork, investigate criminals out in the open. It could be dangerous."

"Yes, it could," Nathan conceded with a nod. "But we'll be careful."

"How?" Harold scoffed. "You're a horrible lurker."

Nathan shrugged. "Well, then I guess I'll leave most of the lurking to you."

"And what do we do once we find out who the bad guy is?" Harold asked, still agitated. "How do we take him down? I'm not exactly a prize fighter, and neither are you."

"No, we're not," Nathan agreed. "But we are two MIT graduates and one of us is in Mensa. Surely we are smart enough to outthink a guy who wants to kill his boss for making him work overtime." He noted the skepticism on Finch's face and sighed. "We'll just figure it out when the time comes."

"That's reassuring."

Ingram looked at Finch for a minute and then chuckled softly. "I have to tell you, Harold- I'm surprised you're not all over this idea. I thought you loved all this cloak and dagger stuff."

"I do not love all this cloak and dagger stuff." Harold corrected, frustrated. "I do it out of necessity- to see what happens and to make sure you stay safe."

"So," Nathan shrugged, "what you'd be doing isn't any different than what you do now. Keeping your eyes and ears open. Investigating. And watching my back."

"And you'll just swoop in to save the day, like Batman?"

"Well, maybe not exactly like Batman." Nathan grinned. "I'd prefer not wear the cape, although the car would be cool."

"And you just automatically expect me to be Robin?"

"You could be Alfred it that makes you feel any better," Ingram deadpanned.

"It doesn't," Finch replied, curtly.

"So, what would you have us do, Harold?" Ingram asked, now getting frustrated as well. "Just ignore all the numbers? Ignore all the _people_ we could help, people we could _save_?"

"If it means saving ourselves, too… then yes. There has to be another way."

"And what way is that?" Nathan threw his hand up in the air, then gestured towards the darkness outside his office window as he spoke, emphatically. "The CIA won't help us. The NSA won't help us. And we can't go to the police or the FBI- we can't tell them about the machine. And they probably wouldn't believe us anyway if we did. There is nobody left but us."

"I know." Harold replied, urgently. "But there just has to be another way- one where we don't get killed trying to save the world."

"Well, you let me know when you figure it out," Nathan huffed and walked towards the door. He stopped at the threshold and turned his head, his back still towards Finch. He paused for a moment, the anger and frustration gone, replaced instead by hurt.

"In the meantime," he said, quietly, "I'll be the hero by myself."

And, with that, he walked out the door.

*POI*

They didn't speak for a few days. At least, not about anything important. On those rare instances where they crossed paths, either in the elevator or lobby of the building, they would acknowledge each other and make small talk about the weather or another mundane topic. They didn't talk about the machine. Or Nathan's plan. Or their strained relationship.

Instead, they passed the next week generally avoiding each other. Harold holed up in his office, working on the machine and thinking, desperately trying to find a safe way to help the people whose numbers had come up. Two more numbers came in, but Harold didn't tell Nathan, hoping to discourage him from doing something rash. But Nathan had access to the machine as well. And although he presented a charming, golden boy image, it wasn't a fluke that Nathan got into MIT. He was smart. Very smart. Maybe not as brilliant with computers as Finch, but smart enough to get the information he needed. Finch pretended not to notice when Nathan disappeared, sometimes for hours on end. Nathan never told Finch where he was going, and Harold never asked. But he knew Nathan was trying to save lives while he sat in his office, thinking about it.

It stung a bit for Harold to realize that his default in life had not changed much. While others were out in the world, doing, he was still inside, avoiding. Burying his head in his work as an adult wasn't much different than burying his head in a book as a child.

Still, Harold wasn't ready to just throw away his life. And, in his opinion, that's exactly what Nathan was doing, no matter how well-intentioned he was.

Harold thought a lot about that night in Nathan's office, about their argument. And he still knew he was right- they were both ill-equipped to face danger and save lives. But, after a week of non-stop thinking, he had also realized Nathan was right as well- there was nobody else left. It was up to them.

And while Harold had been hiding in his office for a week, trying to avoid the inevitable, Nathan had been running around New York, trying to prevent someone from getting hurt. And Harold had let him. He had left his best friend in the world go out there alone. Unprotected. And in danger.

Granted, Harold spent a good deal of time each day using the machine to locate Nathan when he left the building, trying to keep tabs on him to make sure he was safe. But the truth of the matter was, if something really went wrong- if someone pulled a knife or a gun on Nathan- there would be nothing Harold could do but call 911. And by the time help arrived, it would be too late. Nathan would be injured, or worse, and Harold would live with the guilt for the rest of his life.

Late one night, Harold finally came to a decision. As crazy as Nathan's plan was, Harold would back him- and not just from the safety of his office. If he was going to be there for Nathan, to protect him, then he would have to join him.

He pulled out his cell phone to call Nathan, to apologize and tell him the news, when the computer woke up and whirred, the monitor lighting up. Curious, Harold slid the phone back into his pocket and quickly entered his password. Another number had come up, the first one in the past few days. Harold grabbed a pen and paper to write the number down, but when he looked back at the computer, he knew they were unnecessary.

Harold sat there and stared at the computer for a minute, both stunned and terrified.

Because he knew that number.

He had memorized it years ago.

The number was Nathan's.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Harold waved his left hand frantically in the air, trying to hail a cab, as he hit the redial button on the phone in his right hand. He held the phone up to his ear, holding his breath as the phone rang.

_One ring, two rings, three rings, four…_ and then a click. "This is Nathan Ingram. I can't come to the phone right now…"

Harold cursed silently and disconnected the call before immediately hitting the redial button. The phone was on its second ring when a cab pulled over to the curb, a few feet ahead of Harold. He ran to the back door and opened it, much to the surprise of the lady who was sitting in the back seat. She gave Harold a dirty look as she climbed out, mumbling under her breath about impatient men with bad manners.

Normally, Harold would care, but not tonight. He jumped into the cab and slammed the door. He rattled off the address he had pulled from the GPS on Nathan's phone to the cabbie and held the phone back up to his ear. "…come to the phone…"

Harold disconnected the phone, frustrated, and hit speed dial #2 again, hoping he could reach Nathan before it was too late.

*POI*

The bar was nothing to look at. Nathan usually frequented more swanky establishments, where one could enjoy a martini or scotch with Manhattan's upper crust. Not that Nathan cared much about social standing, but that was where he could network with people with power, people who could help IFT. And Nathan was nothing if not a consummate businessman and natural born schmoozer.

It was clear there was no one in this dive bar who could help Nathan. In fact, the odds were looking good that he might get jumped and mugged; which is why he sat in the corner, his back to the wall, and pretended to nurse a warm beer. The clicks and clacks of billiard balls hitting each other could barely be heard over the loud music blaring from the speakers on the wall.

That was where Harold found him, twenty minutes later. His momentary relief was quickly replaced by anger. He quickly strode over to Nathan, ignoring the suspicious looks from bar patrons. "Why didn't you answer your phone?" he demanded.

Nathan pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it, his eyebrows quirking up in surprise. "Thirteen calls?" He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Must be important."

"It is!" Harold hissed.

"Sit down, Harold," Nathan said sternly under his breath. "You're sticking out like a sore thumb. I look suspicious enough already without you bringing attention to me."

Harold glanced around and noticed that several of the men at the bar and two more at the pool table were, indeed, staring at them with unhappy looks. He pulled out a chair and slowly sat down next to Nathan, trying to appear inconspicuous. He was relieved when the men appeared to lose interest and turned their attention elsewhere.

"So, why didn't you answer your phone?" he asked again, more quietly this time.

Nathan sighed. "I couldn't hear it. In case you haven't noticed, this place isn't exactly a library."

Harold noticed for the first time that the bar was exceedingly loud. "Oh."

The corner of Nathan's mouth turned up, sarcastically. "Yeah. 'Oh'." He took a sip of beer. "So, care to tell me why you're here, Harold?"

"Because you're in danger," Harold replied, keeping his voice low.

"That so?" Nathan scoffed and then scanned the room, looking at the bar's clientele. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Your number came up."

Nathan froze, his beer halfway up to his mouth. His face remained neutral, but Harold knew his friend well enough to know he was scared. And Harold could count on one hand the number of times Nathan had been scared over the past thirty years.

After a moment, Nathan set down his beer and turned to face Harold. "When?"

"Less than an hour ago."

"And you came to warn me?"

Harold nodded.

Nathan took a sip of his beer and then nodded back. "Ok. Consider me warned. You've done your duty, now you can go back to the office where it's safe."

Harold sat there, surprised at how much his friend's words hurt, even if they were warranted. He cared more about what Nathan thought of him than he wanted to admit. And knowing that Nathan thought he was a coward was almost unbearable. He sat there in silence for a few minutes, processing his thoughts as Nathan continued to evaluate the bar patrons with as casual of an eye as possible.

Finally, Harold spoke. "No."

Nathan turned his head towards his friend, surprised.

"No," Harold said, more forcefully this time. "I'm not going back to hide in the office."

"And what brought around this sudden change of heart?" Nathan asked, his eyebrows raised. "My imminent demise?"

"No," Harold replied. "I made my decision before your number came up."

"And what exactly did you decide?" Nathan asked, suddenly interested.

"That if you were hell-bent on running around New York, trying to save everyone, that I wouldn't let you do it alone."

A slow smile crept over Nathan's face. "So, you decided you wanted to be Robin after all?"

"I thought we agreed I could be Alfred," Harold replied, drily.

"So we did," Nathan said with a genuine smile, the hard feelings of the past week forgotten. He clapped a hand on Harold's shoulder. "So, Alfred, where do we start?"

"I thought you could fill me in on the person you're currently working on. That way, we kill two birds with one stone, since he or she is also the person who would most likely want to hurt you," Harold replied. "And don't tell me you're not following anyone; God knows there is no other reason you'd be in this bar." He looked around the dirty room with barely concealed disdain. The number of potential germs in the establishment alone made him want to wash his hands immediately.

Nathan chuckled and removed his hand, encircling his warm beer again. "All right. Brent Wilkins," he said, nodding towards a dark-haired man in a brown jacket, face down at the bar. "He bought a gun after his wife ran off with one of his co-workers."

"And you think he's going to kill his wife?"

Nathan nodded. "Or his co-worker. Although, it looks doubtful that anything is going to happen tonight."

Harold gazed at the man and couldn't help but agree. Sleeping in a puddle of drool on a bar usually wasn't a precursor to murder. It looked like Brent's wife and co-worker were both safe for the night. And if he was the man after Nathan, then Nathan was safe as well.

"Is there anyone else who would want to kill you?" Harold asked.

"You mean besides my ex-wife?"

Harold was not amused. "Stop joking. This is serious."

"Who said I was joking?" Nathan answered with a smile.

"Ok," Harold conceded, "besides her, is there anyone else?"

Nathan shook his head. "Nope. Everybody loves me."

If anyone else had said that, Harold would have rolled his eyes. But the fact of the matter was Nathan was right. Everyone did love him. Nathan oozed charm and people were drawn to him like proverbial moths to a flame. It was still somewhat amazing to Harold that Nathan had picked him to be his closest friend.

"Well, that narrows it down," Harold said. "We just have to watch out for one jilted husband whom you are stalking, one bitter ex-wife who would love for her son to inherit your half of the company, and potentially a nameless person who anonymously hates you. Keeping you alive should be a piece of cake."

Nathan smiled. "You're assuming I'm the victim."

"Yes, I am. Unless there is something else you want to tell me." Harold raised his eyebrows. "Should I be sniffing my tea before I drink it?"

"No, you're safe. At least for now," Nathan added, mischievously.

"All right, then." Harold nodded then looked at this watch. "It's late. And until we know more, it's not safe for you to go back to your loft or the office. Would you like to stay at my place?"

"I might as well." Nathan stood and took out his wallet, tossing a twenty on the table. He looked at Brent Wilkins sleeping it off, his face still on the bar. "Nothing is going to happen here tonight."

Harold stood as well and the two men made their way out onto the deserted street. A cold rain had begun to fall while they were inside, guaranteeing that hailing a cab would be almost impossible. Harold was surprised when two minutes later, a cab slowed to pull over to the curb.

He was even more surprised when the passenger side window rolled down and gunfire erupted.

The next thing Harold knew, the cab had sped away and he was laying on his stomach on the cold ground, his face in a puddle as the rain continued to fall.

The last thing he saw before he passed out were Nathan's eyes, staring back at him blankly in death.

_To be continued… _


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Harold missed the funeral.

He was still heavily sedated on the Thursday in late February when Nathan was laid in the ground in a cemetery in the Hamptons, not far from the Ingram family beach house.

Nathan's son, Will, visited Harold a few times over the next few weeks between Harold's spine and hip surgeries. The two men had always had an easy relationship, resulting in Will still calling his father's friend "Uncle Harold," just as he did as a child. Will was truly his father's son, with the same good looks, charm, and easygoing manner. And, just like his father, he appreciated Harold for who he was.

Harold always looked forward to Will's visits. At first, words were few and they would just sit quietly together, each taking comfort from being in the presence of the only other person in the world who felt the loss of Nathan as acutely as they did. Eventually, they started talking even though the conversation often turned, painfully, to Nathan. Will filled Harold in on the funeral and Harold told Will about Nathan's last days, purposefully leaving out the last week of his life. They also remembered happier times, such as the time Nathan bought Will a puppy for his twelfth birthday, only to have the surprise ruined when the dog wouldn't stop barking at the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Ingram. Harold smiled as he remembered how Nathan had said, at that moment, he knew he'd picked the perfect dog.

All too soon, Will went back to medical school and Harold was left, for the most part, alone. He had a few other visitors, namely the police, who would come ask questions, but who were never able to provide him with any answers. It drove Harold crazy to know he could access more information, and possibly get some leads, if only he had access to the machine. But he couldn't tell the police about it and wouldn't trust the network security at the hospital even if he had his laptop brought to him. Investigating Nathan's murderer would have to wait until he got home, which fueled his determination to get better.

His dedication served him well as he worked through his physical therapy, allowing him to progress at a much faster pace than his build would indicate. A week after his last surgery, Harold was discharged to a rehabilitation clinic, where he remained only three weeks before being allowed to go home.

Harold stepped carefully out of the cab, using only a cane for assistance, and sighed a breath of relief as he stood on the sidewalk and looked at the old library, his home. Then he slowly limped up to the front door, swiped a security card thorough a reader to unlock it, and stepped inside.

Nobody was there to greet him, nor did he expect any festivities. His parents were dead and his brothers didn't even know he had been shot. Having nothing to say, Harold had not called them and the news stories were all about Nathan Ingram, founder of IFT, shot dead on the street. Little to no mention was given to the man found wounded and lying beside him.

Which was exactly how Harold wanted things. Always deeply suspicious and borderline paranoid by nature, Harold preferred to remain in the shadows. Even Will didn't know that he was the other founder of IFT, instead thinking Uncle Harold was an insurance executive, an image Harold worked hard to protect. Only Nathan had known the truth – the whole truth- about Harold.

Harold walked to the elevator and pushed the button. The elevator dinged and the door opened, already at the first floor. Harold stepped inside and pushed the button for the third floor, the time for reflection over.

He had a killer to catch.

*POI*

Harold wasted no time logging onto the machine. To his dismay, he saw that thirteen numbers had popped in his absence. He didn't take the time to research them at the moment, but he knew the odds were good that thirteen people's lives had been affected by crime, most likely permanently. Just like Nathan's.

He pushed the thought of Nathan to the back of his mind as he continued digging for data that would help him isolate Nathan's killer. He started on the night of the shooting and was able to find a traffic cam not too far from the bar. Within minutes, he had hacked into the camera files, only to find out the images were purged monthly. Harold sighed. It had been seven weeks since the shooting. Any evidence from the camera was gone.

He moved on and was finally able to locate an ATM camera down the block and across the street from the bar. The banks evidently had more money to spend on archiving than the city and Harold was relieved to find the file was still there. The images were grainy, and the angle of the camera less than ideal, but Harold was able to enhance the video enough that he was able to determine the license plate and cab number. He was also able to determine that the cab was empty other than the driver, meaning he had acted alone.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start. As expected, the cab was reported stolen before the shooting and the license plate was registered to a 1989 Ford van. By that point, it was late in the afternoon and Harold rubbed his eyes. He stood, stiffly, knowing he had been sitting too long and needed to move around if he was to prevent his back from locking up.

He walked slowly to the kitchen, with the aid of his cane, and started a teakettle of water on the stove. He opened the cabinet and pulled down a tin of his favorite tea. A few minutes later, he limped back to his computer, unable to use his cane and balance his tea at the same time without spilling.

Harold resumed his investigation, following the cab via various cameras around the city, until it was ditched in Brooklyn an hour after the shooting. A man got out of the cab, conveniently wearing a bulky coat as well as a ski cap and gloves. Harold pressed his lips together tightly, knowing there would be no prints left in the cab. And the ski cap and coat obscured the man's face and frame so completely, he would be impossible to identify. Still, Harold was determined not to give up. Several minutes and three cameras later, Harold had followed the man and watched, helplessly, as he threw the gun, and then his gloves, into the river and walked away.

Even though the footage was seven weeks old, watching the man throw away the murder weapon hit Harold like a sucker punch to the stomach. There would be no recovery of the gun; the current would have moved it into the ocean long ago. And even if a miracle happened, if the gun got snagged on some debris in the river, and the police were lucky enough to find it, any potential evidence would be lost due to time and water.

Harold sat there numbly for a minute before he redoubled his efforts. But from there, Harold lost him. He couldn't find the shooter on any of the cameras. The man had simply disappeared.

*POI*

Harold tried to sleep late the next morning, but the light streaming into his windows, combined with some residual stiffness from sitting at the computer for hours the day before, made it impossible. Instead, he rose at 7:00 a.m. and shuffled to the kitchen to fix a simple breakfast. As he reached for the fresh loaf of bread to make some toast, he was glad he had resumed his grocery delivery service the morning before he arrived home.

As the toast broiled in the oven, he mindlessly clicked on the Today Show. Matt Lauer, the anchorman, was going on about something, but Harold really didn't listen until a name caught his attention. "Again, this is breaking news. Denton Weeks, Deputy Director of the CIA, was found dead in his home in Virginia early this morning."

Harold grabbed the remote and turned up the TV, disbelieving, as Lauer continued to speak. "The McLean Police Department, the CIA, and the FBI are refusing to comment at this time. Although, sources close to the investigation have confirmed that foul play is suspected…"

The TV report continued, but Harold was lost in thought. First, Nathan. Now, Weeks. Two of the four people who knew about the machine were dead. And, although nobody knew about Harold, an attempt had been made on his life as well. Harold had assumed the whole time he was collateral damage- that whoever wanted to kill Nathan just took him down as well. But now, he wasn't so sure. And if Nathan and Weeks were dead, the only other person left alive who knew about their connection, and about the machine, was Alicia Corwin. With both of them gone, she would think she had the machine all to herself. That is, unless she had found out about Harold.

Harold smelled something burning and hurriedly turned off the oven pulled out the smoking black toast. He threw the cookie sheet on the counter, his appetite now gone. He quickly checked to make sure his security system was still online and armed. Finding things as they should be, he turned up the TV even louder before he shuffled off to his computer in the adjoining room.

It was time to see what Alicia Corwin had been up to.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It took Harold the better part of the day to find out.

He used the machine to start searching for all data involving Alicia Corwin, beginning yesterday and working backwards. By late afternoon, when the sun began to set, he had completed reviewing yesterday's feeds and had almost finished combing through the day before. He didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed that the NSA had so many cameras placed around their building. He was relieved when Alicia left in her car for the night, seeing that he only had a few more feeds to review before Alicia would arrive at her home and he could take a much needed break.

He watched, in fast forward, as her car inched along in rush-hour traffic on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. However, he slowed the feed down once she missed her usual exit. Instead of turning off towards her house, she looped onto the Capital Beltway. She wasn't on it long, and soon exited and parked at the George Washington Cemetery. She got out of her car and began to meander around the grounds. Harold was confused as to why she was there, until he saw a lone figure emerge from the trees about five minutes later. Even from a distance and in the dim twilight, Harold recognized the man.

Denton Weeks.

Harold leaned forward in his chair, ignoring the pain this simple movement caused in his back. He watched as Weeks and Alicia continued their nonchalant walks that ended with them standing one headstone apart facing opposite directions. Alicia was facing the camera, and even though the video did not have audio, it was easy to tell she was angry. Occasionally, she spoke, but mainly she just listened. After a few minutes, Weeks left and walked back towards the trees and disappeared, his face not visible to the camera again.

Alicia stood where she was by the tombstone for a minute before she walked back towards her car. As she approached, the camera at the entrance to the cemetery caught a glimpse of her before she opened her car door and got in. And if Harold was forced to assign an emotion to her face, it would have been "murderous."

*POI*

Harold quickly ate a late dinner, not because he was hungry, but so he could take his pain meds. He hated taking them, but as a result of being shot, constant back and neck pain were going to be with him for years, if not for the rest of his life. And all the time he had spent over the past two days, sitting still at a computer, had not helped matters much.

He loaded up the feeds from three days ago and did a few of his physical therapy stretches while he waited for the meds to kick in. Harold wished he could just go to bed and start again in the morning, but he knew he would never be able to sleep now. He had to know what had transpired before the meeting in the cemetery.

Harold had personally only met Alicia Corwin once, in Nathan's office, but he had eavesdropped on enough of Nathan's conversations with her to know she seemed fairly level-headed. And Nathan had nothing but positive things to say about her. Actually, Nathan had said "she wasn't too bad for a spook," which was praise in itself, knowing how much Nathan disliked and distrusted the intelligence community in general. So, if something had upset Alicia that much, enough to potentially commit murder, it must have been bad.

Harold continued to pore over the feeds until past midnight, and was about to give up for the night, when he noticed something on one of the video feeds from Alicia's office. Alicia was sitting at her desk when she looked at her computer and frowned. She clicked on her mouse and then her face shifted subtlety. She didn't say a word, but Harold guessed the look on her face was astonishment and then it shifted again to barely controlled anger. Whatever was on her computer had clearly gotten under her skin.

With a few swift keystrokes and utilizing a different feed, Harold was able to pull up an email Alicia received at the exact time of the tape. Attached to the email was a video file and the computer records confirmed it was the one she accessed during the video feed Harold had just watched.

Harold pulled up the file and immediately began to play it.

The video was dated not quite two months ago and began with a camera shot of Denton Weeks, sitting at a desk in what Harold presumed to be his office at CIA headquarters. Weeks was shuffling through some paperwork but stopped when a young man, sharply dressed and no older than thirty, walked in. Weeks didn't bother to rise, but nodded at an empty chair in front of his desk. The man shut the door behind him and sat down, waiting for Weeks to speak.

After a minute, Weeks looked back up at the man. "You have everything in place?"

The man nodded. "Yes, sir. The GPS locator has been activated and my contact will be ready to roll tonight."

Weeks leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, and peered at the young man. "And you're sure your contact knows what he's doing? This cannot come back on us."

The man nodded. "There won't be any problems, sir."

"And after the job is complete?"

"I'll take care of the contact myself. No loose ends, sir."

Weeks leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Good. You're doing a great service for your country. Mr. Ingram is a threat to national security, and the sooner he is gone, the better."

Then the tape cut off.

And suddenly, Harold knew why Alicia looked so upset. He was sure he was wearing a similar expression himself.

It wasn't every day you saw a hit placed on a man, much less your best friend.

He sat there in silence for a few minutes, too stunned to even think.

Then, the wheels began turning in his head. Weeks had put a hit out on Nathan; that much was sure. As to why, that was obvious. Weeks had never liked the arrangement with the machine. Weeks wanted Nathan to build it, all right, but Weeks also wanted to control it. And Nathan flat out refused to let him. "It's a black box. That's the deal," Nathan had told Weeks. Evidently, Weeks finally had enough and decided to take Nathan out of the picture so he would have access to the machine and all of its data.

It also appeared that Weeks didn't know about Harold; otherwise, Weeks would have placed a hit on him as well or at least sent someone to the hospital to finish him off. As Harold had originally suspected, he was just collateral damage, simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And based on the two videos, it stood to reason that Alicia had taken out Weeks, either for retaliation for the hit on Nathan or as a preemptive strike to protect herself from being Week's next victim; perhaps both.

But what Harold really wanted to know was who had sent the video file to Alicia in the first place? Was there someone else in the CIA or NSA who had it in for Weeks? Was there someone else who knew about the machine? Or knew about him?

After a few minutes of frantic hacking, Harold located the IP address of the person who sent the file.

Harold thought he was through being shocked. He was shocked when Nathan's number came up. He was shocked when he and Nathan were shot outside the dive bar. And he was shocked just a few minutes ago, watching Weeks place a hit on Nathan.

But this was the most surprising one of all. Just like he didn't need to look up a name when Nathan's number came up, he didn't need to look up the location of the IP address.

Because Harold recognized it.

The IP address was his.

_To be continued… _


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: This is the final chapter, guys. Thanks again for reading and especially reviewing! :)

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

Harold sat there for a minute, his body completely still but his mind racing.

Had someone hacked into his system? Masked his IP address, making it appear the email came from his own computer? Or had someone broken into the library, somehow bypassing the security system, and sent the email from his laptop? Was he safe? Was someone watching him right now? Should he run? But where would he run to? Not the office- it wouldn't be any safer than his home, probably less so.

_Breathe, Harold,_ he reminded himself. He took a few deep breaths to calm down. _Think this through logically._

_Ok, first step: determine if anyone broke into the library. _

Harold pulled up the security records for his home. The only time his system had been disarmed in the past seven weeks was two days ago, when he came home. The additional card swipe his system required matched his card. The grocery man had not been inside- he left the groceries on the first floor, right outside the door, in a locked closet Harold used exclusively for deliveries. Harold could pull the last seven weeks of video footage from the numerous cameras he kept inside and outside of the library, but reviewing them all would take days. He would do that, if necessary, but for now, he would dig elsewhere.

_Step two: see if anyone hacked the system._

Harold was relieved he never had his laptop delivered to the hospital; that would make things far more complicated. But since nobody entered the library during his absence, he only had to look for hacks from outside. An hour later, he was satisfied that nobody had breached the firewall and that his system was secure.

_Step three: determine if someone masked the IP address. _

That took another hour, but when Harold finished, he was convinced nobody had masked his address as their own, either.

Which only left one answer… the file actually had been sent from his computer.

And if the file had been sent from his computer, but he didn't do it, and nobody else had been inside the library…

He quickly punched in a few commands and seconds later, he found the data he needed. Even though he was staring at it on the screen, it was still hard to believe. But it had to be true. There was no other explanation.

The machine sent the file.

The realization hit Harold hard.

_The machine sent the file. The machine sent the file._

Harold continued to think it through.

The machine had access to all the data he had been looking at. The machine saw Nathan and Harold get shot. The machine saw the conversation at the CIA between Weeks and the young operative. The machine decided Weeks was wrong. The machine decided Weeks needed to be punished. The machine took matters into its own hands and sent the file to Alicia Corwin.

Harold sucked in a deep breath and continued to breathe heavily, his lungs starved for air. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath for some time.

The machine was more aware than Harold realized.

And its instinct for self-preservation extended much farther than he dreamed. The machine would also protect the people who had access to it. However, that protection only extended so far. It clearly did not extend to Weeks, and apparently, it did not extend to anyone else, either. Otherwise, it wouldn't spit out the numbers of people who were in danger, only to see them killed days later, their murderers still walking free.

The machine could also make moral judgments. And although the machine did not explicitly kill Denton Weeks, it must have known that sending the video to Alicia Corwin would result in some form of action on her part.

Harold had a thought and quickly checked the log of the thirteen numbers that had popped up since Nathan's. As he suspected, none of the numbers belonged to Weeks. So, the machine also knew enough to cover its tracks.

Harold sat at his desk, stunned with the magnitude of what he had created.

A machine that could collect data, make judgments, and was willing, at least where itself, Harold, and Nathan were concerned, to carry out punishments. The machine was a judge and jury system, all to itself.

Harold stood up and began to walk around, trying to figure out what to do. He stopped in front of one of the windows and looked out. Dawn was beginning to break over Manhattan, the sky turning from grey to light purple and pink. He watched the sun rising, until it was bright in the sky and the streets were full of people, hurrying to work.

And Harold struggled with the decision he needed to make. Would he turn off the machine, making sure it never took matters into its own hands again, but also stopping the flow of numbers and allowing other people to die?

He watched the people below as they rushed to catch cabs and subways, blissfully unaware that their every move was being watched; that their very actions, whether conducted in the open or in private, could either save or condemn them. Was he willing to risk their lives?

And Harold knew what he must do.

He hurried back to the computer and inserted a flash drive. He downloaded the video files of Weeks and Alicia Corwin in their offices and their cemetery meeting onto the drive and then placed it in a locked safe. Harold was fairly certain Alicia did not know about him, and that she would not kill again, but it never hurt to have insurance.

Then, Harold changed the subroutine of the machine so it would delete the file of numbers every night. He felt a twinge of regret as the thirteen numbers disappeared, people he would never know or have a chance to help. And, truthfully, most of them were probably already dead. But it was for the best; if the numbers remained, they could point to the machine's awareness that what it did was wrong. After all, the machine had looked out for Nathan and Harold; it was time for him to return the favor.

Harold hesitated before he performed his last task. It was one he did not want to do, but was also necessary.

He pulled up the machine's admin rights and two numbers popped up. He stared at Nathan's number, as well known to him by sight as his name.

Then, with a sigh, Harold deleted Nathan's number, leaving only his own glowing on the monitor.

But Harold knew that was how it had to be. No matter what, he could not allow anyone else access to the machine; he could not risk it killing anyone again. If it did, and the machine was shut down, countless other people would die. And that was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

His task complete, Harold stood up and limped off to bed. But he knew it would be hours before he could go to sleep.

*POI*

Harold looked both ways before he entered the lobby of IFT headquarters late the next day. Nobody seemed to notice the man with a limp as he slid his access card through the reader and opened the door.

The lawyers had completed their audit of IFT and the movers were coming tomorrow to remove all the contents from the premises. Normally, Harold would have stayed away, not wanting to alert anyone to his presence. But there was something he needed to get.

He stepped off the elevator on the top floor and took a look around. He could see Nathan's corner office, straight ahead, the door standing ajar, as if it was inviting Harold inside. He walked to it and pushed the door open. He stood in the doorway for a while, taking it all in: the sofa and chair where he and Nathan had so many discussions; the credenza where Nathan kept a bottle of scotch for the rough days; and Nathan's desk, where he sat as little as possible. Harold smiled, remembering how Nathan preferred to be out, mingling and networking, charming almost everyone he met.

It was strange to be here without Nathan, even stranger than it was when Harold visited his gravesite for the first time earlier in the day. The cemetery was for the dead. It was supposed to be cold and quiet.

But the office… the office was supposed to be alive with the sound of Nathan's voice. He was supposed to hear the clack of Nathan's shoes as he walked around, always in motion. He was supposed to see Nathan's head pop into his office, telling him to get out and get some fresh air when Harold had been sitting at his computer for too long.

But all of these were missing.

Harold was not an overly emotional man, but still the memories threatened to overwhelm him. So, he turned and walked out of Nathan's office and headed towards his own. He turned on the lights and went straight to his desk to retrieve the item he wanted.

It was still sitting there, in the same place it had been for almost thirty years.

Harold picked up the frame and stared at the picture of Nathan and him from their first fly fishing trip in Wyoming. He remembered what Nathan had said when he gave Harold the picture, his words echoing in Harold's mind:

"To remind you what life's really about."

Nathan had been right.

Harold smiled sadly and then flipped over the frame. He knew the lawyers and accountants would have inventoried every single paper clip in the office, so taking the actual frame would be suspicious. But taking the picture itself was a risk he was willing to take. He removed the frame's back and that's when he saw it- something he had never seen before.

Nathan had written something on the back of the picture. Harold held the picture up closer to his face and his breath caught as he read the inscription, "In the beginning… N.I."

Yes, in the beginning, there was Nathan Ingram.

Offering Harold his hand in friendship. Partnering with him in business. Nathan, with his big personality and even bigger dreams. Harold could still remember that night in their MIT dorm room when Nathan told Harold what he wanted to do with his life: To start a company. To get rich. And, maybe one day, to save the world.

Nathan had accomplished two out of three, with Harold by his side. As to saving the world… with the machine, they had made a good start. But there were plenty more people left to save.

And only Harold left to carry on.

Harold slowly turned the photo over to the front and looked at the two men smiling back at him.

Nathan and Harold. The hero and the sidekick. In business and in life. It was a happy arrangement for them both.

And one Harold was not willing to let go of. Not now. Not when there was a way to carry on Nathan's dream, his legacy.

Harold carefully tucked the picture into his coat pocket and set the empty frame back in its place before he slowly limped to the door. He paused for a moment and looked at his office for the last time. Then he turned off the lights.

He would start looking for a new hero tomorrow.

_The End _


End file.
